Fighting for Angela
by Zackaroni1773
Summary: When tragedy strikes the Hodgins family, they must cope with anger and pain that bubble quickly to the surface. But despite a life hanging in the balance, Angela and Hodgins will find that you are never too old to learn new lessons about love and life and a devotion that will never cease.
1. First Comes Love

Hodgins drummed his fingers nervously on the steering wheel.

"Come on. Come on," he pleaded under his breath, silently willing traffic to create a path for him.

D.C. rush hour….the time of the day where tempers increase and I.Q.'s decrease. Creeping along behind a shiny yellow taxi, Hodgins' mind drifted momentarily back to his quiet, peaceful office, void of blaring horns and the blazing sun which which glared off of every passing vehicle. Just as his blood pressure began to lower, the scientist was jerked back to reality, slamming on his brakes to avoid crashing into a darting motorcycle.

Jack's heart raced. "COME ON," he yelled along with a few other choice words and a certain hand gesture that Angela wouldn't let him use in front of Michael.

"Angie….," he thought. After twenty years of marriage, her name still gave him butterflies. His best friend, the woman who could send him into a fury or calm his racing mind with just one word, with one touch….Angela. Through the years, Hodgins had watched his curly hair gray (thank you Michael Vincent) and his skin mellow with age, but not Angie. As beautiful as the day they met, her long dark hair hung just below her shoulders. Her deep brown eyes, the color of a blooming Quercus specimen, still pierced his shielded heart. They could see through his walls, his mask, his fake emotions in a glance and administer the comfort….or correction needed. His heart pounded at the thought of her perfectly-shaped lips, the way she drew the corners up into a smile was enough to melt his resolve on anything and everything.

Hodgins forced himself to stop before he ventured any further. He had finally reached his destination, St. Vincent's hospital. He sped into a parking spot and flung the car door open with a creak. Guilt crept into his mind. Angela had been asking him to fix that for weeks. But he didn't have time to think about that right now, he needed to get inside. Hodgins jogged through the automatic doors and scanned the waiting room for familiar faces.

There they were.

Angie, wearing the purple dress he had bought her last week, lay stretched across a row of cold, metal, hospital seats, her head in her best friend's lap. Brennan, still wearing her blue lab coat, stroked Angela's hair, occasionally brushing over her back. She talked quietly with Agent Aubrey, as he stood solemnly beside them.

"What happened?!"

Hodgins sat down quickly and placed a cautious hand on his wife's lower back, alarmed when she didn't acknowledge him. She was shaking. He searched Dr. Brennan's features for an answer, but she refused to meet his gaze. She was worried.

"Angela seems to have suffered a mild physiological event," Brennan offered.

Hodgins stared, waiting for further explanation, but none came. He silently turned to Aubrey, his voice low and calm.

"What happened, Aubrey?"

He ran a gentle hand over his wife's cheek while the younger man spoke. Angela's face radiated heat and beads of sweat were forming on her forehead.

"I don't even know what happened," he said as he shook his head. "It was so fast. She was fine and explaining something to me about the case, then she was saying she felt dizzy and I barely had time to catch her before she passed out. When she woke up, she wasn't making sense, just talking out of her head, something about Michael V," Aubrey chewed his nails nervously as he peered down from his standing position.

"Angela Hodgins," a nurse called out. Her name echoed off the sterile walls of the Emergency Room.

Brennan lifted Angela's head as Hodgins shook her awake.

"Come on, Angie. Wake up. They called your name," Hodgins whispered as he sat her up.

She opened her eyes groggily and stared at him for a moment before letting her head crash onto his shoulder.

"Whoa, hey," Hodgins smiled pushing her back. "Come on. They're waiting. Can you walk?"

Angela nodded miserably and Hodgins pulled her up, supporting her with a steady arm wrapped around her back.

"Jack," she whimpered almost inaudibly and his heart leapt into his throat.

"I know," he comforted, "I've got you."

Brennan and Aubrey watched helplessly from their waiting room seats as the couple disappeared behind the door. Brennan noticed Aubrey's leg, bouncing incessantly, burning off anxious energy as he undoubtedly worried about his friend. She sat uncomfortably in the midst of her own anxiety, gazing out the window, hoping against her own beliefs for the best, all the while ignoring that nagging feeling which had crept its way into the back of her mind.


	2. Inbetween Dreams

"Whoa, Ange…."

Hodgins woke abruptly, jumping out of his seat next to Angela's bed to pull back her hair. She was leaning over, retching into an emesis bin which he quickly took from her shaking hands. Tears streamed from her bloodshot, exhausted eyes.

"W-...what's wrong with me," she asked pitifully. Her voice, hitching when she spoke, caused her to gag once more.

"I don't know, Babe," Hodgins sighed as he checked to make sure she was done. He set down the bin on the bedside table and gently took a hair band from her wrist. "We'll know soon, though," he comforted as he pulled her hair back into a loose ponytail (A trick he learned from Christine a long time ago. Who knew it would come in handy?). "Your test results should be back any day now," he winked, trying to cheer her up. Her lips parted into a small smile and he sat down beside her, slipping a comforting arm behind her back. Angela nodded and leaned back against his chest, pressing their foreheads together. Her face burned against his and he kissed her gently. He checked his watch….4:30 in the morning.

XXX

In the twelve hours that had passed since they called Angela's name, she'd only gotten worse. Hodgins had asked nurse after nurse, and at least three different doctors, "What is wrong with my wife," but no one had any answers to give.

Within an hour of leaving their friends behind, Angela had changed, with few complaints, into a standard hospital gown and was settling into the pristine, bed sheets. He knew that she still felt terrible, her lack of words gave that away, but as she drifted off to sleep she offered him a small smile. It was her way of comforting him, despite her own fears. It worked. It always worked.

By 6:30 that night, several nurses had visited their room. Angela slept through them all. Numerous tests were run and Hodgins had answered the same questions so many times that his lines were thoroughly memorized. Angela, who was usually never, ever sick, had been fighting a virus on and off for the past three months. He let them know that they had been to the doctor and it was nothing to worry about. She was probably exhausted he told them. She works too hard he informed them, but they only nodded while giving him the approximate time of the returning test results, leaving Hodgins to his thoughts while his wife slept restlessly.

Seven-thirty came and went with very little change. Hodgins propped himself uncomfortably in the Poaceae-colored, bedside chair that looked like it belonged in his grandmother's garage. He closed his eyes, listening intently to the sound of their breathing until it fell together in sync. Sleep followed quickly.

The next seven hours ran together in a painful blur. Angela had woken him up, calling his name and complaining of stomach pains. Stomach pains led to nausea, nausea led to vomiting, and the vomiting wouldn't stop. She was in pain, doubled over in a cold sweat and clinging to his hand. Over several hours, IV's were inserted along with doses of heavy-duty fever reducers, pain killers, and anti-nausea medicines, but her body rejected them all and her fever rose higher. Eventually, a strong sedative was administered and Angela's tensed muscles were allowed to relax, but she was still awake, still in pain.

"Angie….," Hodgins tried, but Angela's eyes were glassy and distant like she didn't hear him.

"She'll be out for a while, at least a few hours," a tall, muscular nurse said as he checked her vitals. "We're giving her some fluids while she sleeps so she can rehydrate tonight."

Hodgins nodded and brushed a strand of hair out of Angela's closing eyes.

"Did her fever come down at all," Hodgins asked, his voice strained with exhaustion.

"It's back to 103.1 and still dropping," the nurse said much too cheerfully for that time of night. "We finally found a medicine that did the trick. She's stable," he said with a smile. "Try to get some sleep."

Hodgins nodded his thanks and as the nurse left the room, he ran a cool rag over Angela's face. She sighed contentedly and Hodgins knew that the medicine had kicked in. He leaned back, curling up, once more, in his favorite hospital chair. After a few moments his eyes closed and he breathed deeply, letting the beep of hospital machines sing him a lullaby until sleep overcame him.

XXX

Now it was 4:30, though, and they were back where they'd started. Angela was leaning against him and he held her shaking body. He couldn't see her eyes, but he hoped, as improbable as it seemed, that she was dozing.

He must have drifted off as well. It couldn't have been for more than half an hour! Regardless, he woke for what seemed the tenth time that night to Angela sitting up suddenly.

"You alright?" Hodgins asked, his voice cracking unexpectedly.

Any other time, Angela would have laughed. But now she scrambled desperately, pushing him away and grabbing for the bin on her bedside table, but she missed. She gagged harshly and grabbed her stomach in pain before vomiting on the sheets.

"Shi-...," he whispered, jumping out of the way.

"Jack," she gasped before the pain took her breath away and she doubled over, moaning into her knees.

"It's okay. I'm right here," he soothed, rubbing her back. But as he leaned over her shivering body to grab a glass of water, something caught his attention. Angela had noticed too and was staring, transfixed.

Blood.

Angela coughed again, this time, trying cover her mouth. But it was to no avail and more blood covered the sheets and her gown. A moment of stunned silence passed between them as they sat stunned. Hodgins shifted his gaze to Angela. The tint of color that remained in her cheeks had evaporated and she looked at him desperately.

"What….what's wrong with m-me….," she sobbed once more.

Hodgins, at a loss for words, hit the button on the wall that called for a nurse and leaned his sick wife back against her pillows. He pulled away the bloody sheets and piled them at the end of the bed before wrapping his arms around her. Angela, confused and exhausted, sobbed into Hodgins' chest while he whispered soothingly in her ear. He held a wrist against her forehead and cursed under his breath. The fever was back.

"It's okay, Angie. I've got you," he whispered. "You're going to be just fine."

But even as he soothed her, rocking back and forth, talking about their future, their son, anything to take her mind off the pain, Hodgins' could not ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach that something terrible was happening before his eyes. Unfortunately, he could neither identify the truth nor do anything to prevent its coming. The world he and Angela had created and worked so hard to protect was about to crash down on top of them, waking them both to the harsh reality that all too often surprises its victims: Their lives, from that moment on, were never going to be the same.


	3. Growing Pains

"Michael….Michael, wake up!"

Michael groaned dramatically, flipping onto his stomach as the sun pierced his slitted eyelids.

"Christine, leave me alone," he mumbled into his Spiderman pillow. "The sun hurts…."

A minute of sweet silence followed. Michael had almost drifted back off when his "sleep sanctuary," as he called it, was ripped out from under him and his face plummeted to the leather couch below. He groaned again, even more dramatically (if that was possible), and turned his face away from the window once more.

"Get. Up. Staccato. I swear I will taser you again."

Michael could hear Christine's sock-covered footsteps as they ran around the apartment.

"Michael, have you seen my new hair curler?"

Michael rolled over on the couch to see Christine, still in her pyjamas, squinting at him accusingly from the hallway. Her shoulder-length brown hair was tied in a messy bun that sat directly on top of her head.

Michael thought very carefully about his answer.

"I may have used it yesterday."

Her blue eyes flickered in annoyance.

"Your hair is already curly!" She yelled, turning on her heel and stomping back to the bathroom.

Michael sighed and jumped up to follow her, almost crashing into the bookshelf.

"Why are you screaming at me?!" He yelled back as he clipped the doorway. "OW. Have you seen my glasses?"

"You left them in the kitchen!"

After stumbling around the living room and finally finding the kitchen, Michael felt around for his glasses.

"That's right," he remembered as he picked them up off of the microwave, "The pizza rolls…."

Throwing his glasses on, he grabbed the hair curler out of the kitchen cabinet where he had stowed it (for a good reason which he could not remember at that moment), and made his way to the bathroom they shared.

Michael realized that people thought he and Christine's living situation was weird, and in all honesty, it was. Personally, he prefered to think of them as a modern day "odd couple." He was messy. Her things were neat and organized. She loved science. He leaned towards art. But they were both brilliant and they fit together perfectly. Her friends thought she was insane. His friends thought he got lucky. But the truth of the situation and his answer to everyone who questioned their lives was this: They were best friends, always had been. He couldn't remember life without her and he wasn't going to start just because they were off at college. He couldn't imagine sharing an apartment with anyone else. They had talked about it since they were little. Sure, it was strange, but they made it work.

Michael twisted the doorknob to the bathroom and, not expecting it to be locked, smacked his head against the wood.

"What the….Christine?"

He tried twisting the knob again.

Locked.

Michael leaned his forehead against the cool wood and waited silently, his curly dark bangs hanging down in his hazel eyes.

"Chrissy, what's wrong….," he whispered against the grain.

"I don't know," she whimpered, her voice quiet and high-pitched.

"Let me in," he demanded gently.

After a few tense moments, Michael heard the lock click and saw the door open slightly. He slowly pushed it aside to see Christine, her back to him, leaning against the wall. In front of her, the reflection revealed her solemn features as she bit her lip, the way she always did when she was about to cry. He smirked sadly, sauntering up behind her and wrapping his arms around her neck.

"You worried about telling your parents?"

"Yes," she admitted in a whisper, hanging her head over his arms. He was skinny and taller than both of his parents. He looked funny, peering out at her from behind dark curls and she managed a smile.

"Hey," he smiled as he spun her around to face him, "You're parents are going to be proud of you no matter what you do. My parents are, too. You know that."

Christine couldn't help but grin as she stared at the floor.

"Right?"

Christine didn't answer and he spun her all the way around before asking again.

"Right?"

"Right!" She conceded and pushed him off.

Michael picked up his toothbrush and slathered on toothpaste.

"So what if we both dropped out of college," he mumbled through his mouthful. "We graduated at 16! They know we're smart! Why should they care?!"

Michael looked up with a toothpaste mustache and Christine rolled her eyes.

"Well your parents aren't going to care! Your mom's an artist and your dad is Hodgins! They're going to be thrilled that you're writing a book! Plus, you didn't grow up with Doctor Brennan and Special Agent Booth as parents! You don't understand!"

"Hey," he interrupted, "We're children of the Jeffersonian. We were raised by a collective!"

Michael spat out his toothpaste

"I know exactly what it's like to have Brennan and Booth as parents!"

Christine shook her head.

"And hey," he added more quietly, "I know exactly what it feels like to love your parents more than anything in the world. We're in this together, like always. Okay?"

She nodded and he finally noticed his phone beside the sink. Remembering that he left it there the night before, he picked it up and casually flipped through the messages. Christine began brushing her hair while continuing their conversation.

"My dad is going to kill me," she whined.

"I have sixteen missed calls from my dad," he stated blandly. "That's gotta be a new record, right," he smirked.

"Michael," she scolded, "You need to keep your phone on you! What if that's important?!"

This time, Michael rolled his eyes.

"You know as well as I do that it's going to be about bugs. He wants me to be an entomologist so bad he can't stand it!"

He used his shoulder to hold the phone to his ear while he ran his fingers through his shaggy hair.

"How do I even begin a conversation like that," she questioned. "Do I say…. 'Hey Mom, Dad, I'm quitting school and…."

Christine trailed off when she saw Michael's face. His mouth hung slightly open and he stared fixedly at his phone. His face had gone pale.

"Hey," she said, warily touching his arm. "Is everything okay?"

Michael lowered the phone slowly. Although he stared directly in her eyes, he didn't appear to see her.

"My….It's my mom," he gulped, his throat suddenly dry. "She's really sick."

"Is she going to be okay," Christine asked as her heart started to sink. Michael never showed fear, not like this.

"He said that she's been in the ER all night and that she got really bad this morning so they moved her to the ICU. They don't know what's wrong with her."

They both stood in silence, stunned at the news and having completely forgotten their other problems.

"He said that her fever's really high and that she hasn't stopped talking about me….asking for me."

Christine rubbed her best friend's back, something she had learned from Angela when she was a little girl. Though they'd been inseparable all their lives, Christine had very rarely ever had to comfort Michael and she began to realize how much she'd taken that for granite.

"Christine?" He finally spoke, his sudden calmness unsettling. "It's time for us to go home."


	4. Hell Wears Disguises

After the longest car ride of their lives, Christine and Michael finally arrived at St. Vincent's Hospital late that night. Christine dragged a groggy Michael out of the car and led him, his eyes half-closed, through the cold hallways. He shivered and pulled a hood over his matted hair, dragging his feet in a way that drove Christine crazy. Usually, she would have said something. Actually, she would have yelled something, but not this time. She was worried about him. He'd barely spoken all day, sleeping through most of the car ride, but waking occasionally to ask how far away they were. For this reason, Christine held her tongue.

"Hey," she said, trying to sound cheerful, "You okay?"

Michael, still looking groggy, never looked up from the floor, but nodded his head.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

"Okay," she chirped, although she didn't believe him. "If you're sure."

"I said I'm fine, Christine," Michael snapped.

Christine knew it was best to say nothing else. As easygoing as he usually was, Michael had his dad's fiery temper with all the passion of his mom, the kind that came straight from his soul. When he felt something, he felt it with his entire being. Michael was closer to his parents than most kids could ever understand. He was extremely worried about his mom and it showed all over his face.

Arriving in the ICU waiting area, the young adults learned that Angela had been moved to a regular hospital room, and Michael's mood seemed to brighten slightly. It took them ten more minutes to find the right waiting room and Michael joked that they weren't as bright as test scores said they were. Christine took this as a good sign.

"Christine! Michael Vincent!"

"Look! There's my parents! And Cam," Christine said, pointing as she spun Michael around.

They half walked half jogged (Michael would call it a wog) over to their family and greeted them excitedly. They hadn't been home in months and Booth hugged his little girl for all she was worth. Brennan attacked Michael and Cam had to pull them both off so that she could have a turn.

"So how's college been," Cam questioned, "Did you ace your finals?"

"Um, yeah, of course," Christine choked with a sidelong glance at Michael. He shook his head slightly from his position with an arm around Brennan's neck. "Why wouldn't we?"

"No reason," Cam replied with a suspicious look in her eye. "Arastoo sends his love and says he can't wait to see you both, but he and Wendell are working on a case tonight. Wendell also said that you guys better be ready to play hockey, because he's been practicing."

Christine and Michael both snorted. Wendell and Booth had taught them how to play as kids, but it had been years since their teachers had been able to beat them.

"How's my mom," Michael interjected quickly. "Do they know what's wrong with her?"

Booth shook his head and patted the scrawny boy on the shoulder.

"They just finished doing a uh….Bones, what's the word?"

"Endoscopy."

"Right, an endoscopy. They said we could go see her, a few at a time, after she wakes up."

Michael nodded solemnly.

"Hey, she's alright," Booth comforted. "She's been giving your dad hell all day."

Michael couldn't help but grin.

"I bet so. She's gonna kill me for not answering my phone."

"If your dad doesn't get ahold of you first. He was ready to strangle you last night," Cam informed him.

"I'm still ready to strangle you."

Hodgins' voice appeared suddenly behind them, causing Michael and Christine to jump.

"Hey, buddy," Hodgins smiled. "Welcome home."

Michael crashed into his father, hugging him as tightly as possible.

"Dad….I'm sorry I didn't answer," he said guiltily.

"Don't worry about it. You're here now, right?" Hodgins patted him on the back before wrapping Christine in a bear hug. "Thanks for taking care of my kid."

"Just doing my job," she laughed. "How is she?"

Hodgins stared at her, seeming to contemplate his answer. His silence set Christine's nerves on edge and she knew Michael was freaking.

"She's doing better," he finally decided. "Her fever's lowered and uh….she's holding down some fluids."

He ran a hand through his curly mop, a habit Michael Vincent had picked up. Christine noticed, for the first time, the dark circles forming under his bloodshot eyes. He looked exhausted.

"She's asking for both of you," he said as he motioned behind him. "Ready to go see her?"

Both kids followed him down the hall in silence. Christine was confused at how nervous she was and from the look on his face, Michael was too. Why were they so freaked out? It was just Angela. She'd been there for all of them whenever they'd found themselves in a hospital bed. When the bomb exploded and Hodgins was temporarily paralyzed, she never left his side. Even as a kindergartener, that had stuck out to Christine. When she was thirteen, her appendix ruptured while her parents were out of town. Angela let her lay in her lap as Hodgins sped to the emergency room. And when Michael was in that terrible car wreck last year…. Christine shuddered, remembering the accident and the nightmares that followed. She had been in that wreck, too, only she walked away and Michael didn't.

Hodgins stopped at one of the several standard, grey, hospital doors that lined the hallway and, after knocking softly, pushed the door open.

"Angie," he called. "I brought some hitchhikers to see you."

"Hey sweeties," came the weak response.

Angela laid under several quilts, brought to her to relieve the chills. Her head was propped up on bleached pillows and IV's ran out of both arms. Christine dropped her backpack on a chair and hugged Angela gently. Michael wasn't far behind.

"We were so worried about you!" Christine told her. "We felt terrible that we didn't get the messages earlier!"

"Don't worry about it. I was too busy to notice anyway," she winked with a grin.

After hugging Michael, Angela held held him close to her, pulling off his hood. She squinted up at him with a concerned look in her eyes.

"Michael Vincent, you look terrible! Have you eaten at all today?"

"Mom," he whined, trying to pull away from her, but it was to no avail. Even sick, Angela still had the super strength that so many moms possess.

"Christine?" Angela shifted her gaze.

"He ate a granola bar….this morning," she offered and Michael shot her a death glare.

"Go downstairs and get something to eat. Right now, Michael," she demanded.

"I can take care of myself, Mom," Michael whined again although a smile was spreading quickly across his face.

"Then prove it. Move. Go. Don't make me count to three."

They both kissed her before slipping out, Hodgins hitting the kids on top of the head with some papers as they passed. As soon as the door shut, Angela's smile faded and Hodgins sat beside her, taking both of her hands in his.

"Still feel terrible?"

Angela nodded slowly, the motion making her head spin. Hodgins kissed her hands.

"You're a great mom you know that? They love you so much," he said, staring deeply into her beautiful brown eyes.

"Thanks," she whispered. "But I may have to eventually kill our son."

Hodgins chuckled, "Perfectly fine with me."

A knock suddenly rang on the door, startling them both. A tall man dressed in scrubs gently pushed the door open, allowing the bright hallway lights to temporarily illuminate the dark room.

"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Hodgins," the man said as he pulled up a chair, "My name is Doctor Bridges."

The doctor reached across the bed to shake both of their hands. His were cold, like ice cubes, and dry from washing them several times an hour. He paused a moment, gathering his thoughts before he spoke. Then he sighed.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news."


	5. Terror of Separation

"Z.E.S.?" Is that….is that bad?" Hodgins questioned.

The doctor flipped a page on a nearby clipboard before continuing.

"Zollinger-Ellison Syndrome is also known as Gastrinoma," he said solemnly, never breaking eye contact with Hodgins. Gastrinomas are extremely rare tumors caused by genetic mutations in G cells that are found in the stomach, liver, and ovaries." He switched his gaze over to Angela. "The extra acid generated by the tumors in your stomach is what caused the abdominal pain and vomiting. It's also the reason why your body rejected the medicine and you've been recurrently sick these past few months."

The doctor paused a moment, waiting for the information to sink in.

"Any questions before I continue?"

"Angie has cancer….," Hodgins mumbled, trying to process what he was hearing as he leaned back against his chair.

He didn't know if he was asking a question or making a statement, but the room was suddenly smoldering him and he could hear the blood pounding in his ears.

"Well if they're tumors can't you operate? Take them out in some way? There's gotta be some kind of surgery tha-..."

"I'm very sorry Doctor Hodgins," the doctor interrupted. But the MRI we ran on Angela shows the tumors have spread to her liver and surrounding lymph nodes. The tumors are large and extremely aggressive. There's nothing that we can do. "

"How long?" Angela interrupted.

She spoke solemnly, her voice unwavering. Running a hand subtly over her husband's leg, she grasped his sweaty palm.

"Judging from the aggressiveness of the tumors, we suspect they may have begun growing anywhere from four to six months ago. But um," the doctor gulped, shaking his head earnestly, "Sometimes symptoms just don't appear until much later and..."

"No, I meant…" Angela glanced over at her husband who was staring back at her with eyes the color of the Pacific. "I meant….how much longer do I have?"

"Angie," she heard him whisper. She turned to him, strengthening her hold on his hand.

"We need to know," she nodded. "We need something to tell Michael."

Hodgins shook his head and looked away. His heart ached as he felt the ground being pulled out from under him.

"How long," she asked once more, this time, her voice faltering almost unnoticeably. Almost.

The doctor sighed and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Six months," he replied after deep consideration. "Hopefully longer but…."

Angela nodded.

"I understand."

The young doctor stood slowly, backing towards the door.

"I'll give you the room. I'm really very sorry to have to give you this news. Let me know if I can do anything."

Angela smiled sadly and nodded her thanks. After the door closed, she turned to her husband who sat silently next to her, taking in the terrible news.

"It's going to be okay," she tried to choke out, but her throat felt tight and tears were stinging her bloodshot eyes. "I'm strong."

Hodgins felt his heart breaking.

"We're going to get through this," she sobbed. "Right?"

Tears began to stream from her tired eyes and Hodgins wrapped his arms around her.

"Of course we are, Babe."

He leaned his head against hers as tears of his own began to fall.

"I'm scared," she sobbed. "I'm scared."

"Shhh it's okay. You're going to be just fine. We're going to be fine," he whispered in her ear as the sound of their cries rang through the hospital room to the skies that wept as well, outside their lonely window.

XXX

"You did too!"

"No I didn't!"

"Christine, I specifically remember we, as children, getting into a pudding eating contest with each other and you ate sixteen cups! You puked and I had to run and get my mom 'cause you wouldn't stop crying! Then I had to explain to her what we'd done. That's why you don't like chocolate pudding."

Christine rolled her eyes at Michael's charming smile.

"Whatever….I won the contest," she said smugly.

"Did you?" Michael asked as he shoved a pudding cup up to her nose.

Christine gagged and pushed it away.

"Didn't think so."

"I'm going to kill you, Michael."

"No you won't," he said with a wink.

"Michael," came a voice from across the cafeteria.

Both kids looked around, searching through the crowds for a familiar face. Christine, spotting her dad, waved him over.

"Hey kiddos," came the deep voice as he sat down at their table. Christine noticed a strange look on her dad's face, but when Michael didn't seem to care, she shrugged it off. "Michael, your parents want to talk to you upstairs."

Michael shot him a suspicious look.

"Okaaay. What about?"

"You'll see when you get there, alright? Move it."

The older man patted him on the back, half pushing him out of his chair. Michael stood slowly, spoon still in hand, but his features had faded into worry.

"Can Chrissy come too?" He tried, gently pushing his uncle's patience. But Booth smiled, trying to put the boy at ease.

"Was that sympathy," Christine questioned to herself.

"I need to talk to her down here. Don't worry, alright. You two will be causing trouble again in a few minutes."

Michael stared blankly at Christine for a few long seconds and she could almost see the gears in his mind, spinning at full speed, before he backed away slowly, turning his back only at the last possible second.

As soon as the scrawny boy disappeared out of the cafeteria, Christine began to interrogate her father.

"Dad, what's wrong? What's going on? Why did you separate me and Michael?"

Booth sighed and stared at his little girl for a moment, unsure of how to deliver the news. Then it dawned on Christine.

"What's wrong with Aunt Angie?"


	6. I'm a Little Unsteady

Christine sat in shocked silence, listening as her father's deep voice broke the terrible news. Her thoughts, though, were with Michael. Are they telling him right now? How is he taking it? How are Angela and Hodgins taking it? Hodgins must be a wreck….

"Christine."

Christine was jolted back to reality, not realizing that her father had been calling her.

"Did you get any of that?"

Christine nodded her head as her stomach churned inside of her.

"Yeah….Aunt Angie has cancer and it doesn't look good," she said solemnly. Christine paused for a moment as the words took root. "Do you think she's going to die, Dad," she asked earnestly, praying that her father could make it better like he always did when she was little. But she was an adult now, and her father shook his head.

"I don't know, sweet pea. But you know Angela, she's not going down easily," he answered with a smirk, holding her hands in his. "Are you alright," he asked after giving her moment.

Christine nodded sadly before standing up.

"I need to be with Michael right now. I have to go find him," she said urgently before running off, pausing briefly to kiss her father's cheek.

Christine ran to the elevator and pushed the button hastily.

"Come on. Come on….," she thought as the elevator took its time. As soon as the doors opened on Angela's floor, Christine darted out, almost running over her mother who had been waiting for a ride down.

"Christine," she scolded, pulling her daughter back to face her. "Why are you running in a hospital?"

"Sorry, Mom," she said distractedly, "But I have to find Michael. Have you seen him?"

"Yes, I have," she replied matter of factly. "He said he was leaving. He got on the elevator a few minutes ago. I don't believe that he took the news very well."

"Thanks, Mom. Gotta go," Christine yelled as she jumped back in the elevator, heading for the ground floor.

She bolted past the waiting room and down the hallway. As the sliding glass doors made way for her, the cold wind tickled her reddening cheeks, sending a shiver up her spine. She spun in circles, scanning the cars for Michael. But right before she began to call his name, she spotted him, sitting on the curb a few yards down. Planted in her tracks, she watched him, trying to grasp the situation. What do you say to a friend who's mom has just been given a death sentence? What comfort could she give?

She watched him for several minutes, debating what should be done. But what if he didn't want to talk? He wouldn't run from her. She knew he wouldn't leave. Michael didn't drive. He wouldn't drive. It had been years since the accident, but every time he sat behind the wheel, fear gripped him and he had given up trying. Christine couldn't bring herself to force him. She couldn't bear to hear his desperate begging as he fumbled to get out of his seatbelt.

Christine cringed, remembering with vivid horror.

XXX

It was her seventeenth birthday and she and Michael were home for the weekend. With both sets of parents working a case, they each had a house to themselves and Christine expected to wake up alone. But when she opened her eyes, Michael was there, belting a birthday song that the Jeffersonian team had written for her when she was little. He made her favorite breakfast and vowed to be her slave all day, an annual tradition. Music boomed from the stereo speakers as they ran around the house in their pj's, getting ready to face the day like they did as kids. As afternoon approached, they jumped in their car and Michael drove towards the diner where they were instructed to meet their parents. Christine remembered pointing out a man with a funny hat to Michael as they approached the restaurant's intersection, causing him to laugh until the light turned green.

Christine never saw it coming, neither of them did. Suddenly, the deafening noise of screeching brakes and crunching metal pierced her ears and she was thrown towards the windshield, the safety belt smothering her chest as her breath was taken away. Then she was spinning, flipping over and over and over until she couldn't tell which way the sky was. Her head throbbed as they finally came to a halt, her mind pounding behind slitted eyelids. Christine struggled to focus on her surroundings as her vision improved with every blink. She heard voices, "Hang on!" and "Don't move!" but she recognized none of them.

"Michael…" she mumbled as she turned her head toward him, wincing under the effort.

What she saw become the substance of her nightmares for years to come.

Blood covered his face and hands, soaking his shirt and pooling on his seat. A wound in his head gushed, dripping off of the glass shards that penetrated the skin. The door, completely caved in, surrounded his outer arm and leg, making him appear as only half a person. Christine was covered in blood as well, unable to tell the difference between hers and Michael's. The interior of the car was painted dark red, and Christine suddenly felt sick. It was then that she heard the familiar voice.

"Those are my kids! Let me through!"

"Hodgins!" she tried, but the seatbelt took her breath once more.

The next five minutes were blurred as Christine attempted to stay conscious. She vaguely remembers an attractive fireman, asking her questions as he pulled her from the clutch of her seatbelt. But she could only focus on Michael, watching the rescue team cut him from the desolated car. Petrified, she could not turn away.

XXX 

Christine shuddered, remembering the harrowing day. She silently approached her best friend, taking a seat on the curb beside him. She waited, deciding not to pressure him, but to simply be there, another heartbeat.

"My mom….," he squeaked after a moment of silence. His voice broke and he inhaled a shaky breath. He looked deep into her eyes, so desperate, so worried.

Christine couldn't remember him ever resembling his dad more. Sure, he had Hodgins' curly hair, but his other features were pure Angela. Michael looked at her now, the same way his dad did, when she was pulled from the totaled car and brought to the waiting ambulance.

XXX

Christine insisted, against the fireman's will, on walking to the ambulance, despite her knees wanting to buckle under her. She was shaken, but her pumping adrenaline killed the pain, at least for the time being. She sat on the edge of the rescue vehicle as the paramedics began to check her for injuries and looked into the crowd that had formed, seeing her uncle fighting his way through.

"Christine!" he called to her.

Christine began to sob at the sound of his voice, unable to contain her tears any longer.

"Hey, hey, I'm here sweetheart. I'm right here. You're okay," he comforted as he finally reached her, automatically wrapping a strong arm around her.

Christine fell into his embrace, clinging to him as he held her tight. He rubbed her back gently, kissing the top of her head as she sobbed into his chest.

"Michael," she cried, "I couldn't tell if he was breathing. There was so blood," she choked out.

"Oh god," she heard him say shakily. "Okay….alright….he's going to be fine. Both of you are…."

His voice trailed off. Finally, they had managed to unhinge the car door and were pulling Michael from the wreckage. Hodgins and Christine watched in stunned horror as they loaded him onto the gurney, his limp body cut open and stained red. He was then rushed to a nearby ambulance, loaded carefully inside, and taken quickly to the hospital.

"Please don't leave me. Please," Christine sobbed, still clinging to her uncle. She felt selfish for begging him to stay with her instead of Michael, but she was terrified and begged anyway.

"I won't. I'm right here. I'm not going to let you go. I promise." Hodgins held her tight in his grasp as he searched the crowd. "Angela!" he called suddenly, startling Christine."

"Hodgins!" Angela answered as she ran over. "Oh my god, what happened?" She stroked Christine's hair, looking her over to make sure she was alright. "Sweetie….," she said sympathetically.

Christine buried her face in Hodgins shirt which was soaked from her sobbing. She could hear his voice vibrating throughout his chest.

"Where are Booth and Brennan?"

"They're still at the Jeffersonian," Christine heard. Then a panicked, "Where's Michael?"

"They took him. He's hurt really bad. Go to St. Vincent's and meet them. I'm going to stay with Christine. I'll be there soon."

Christine felt her aunt's hand leave her back as Angela left quickly and silently.

XXX

Christine place her hand on Michael's back and scooted in close, savoring the warmth that was passing between them. He leaned his head on hers as she rested on his shoulder. It was quiet, peaceful, if not for the torment inside of them. Christine sat, listening to Michael's breath hitch, although he tried to keep it from her.

"Chrissy….," he cried. "I don't know what to do. I….I want to take care of her. I mean," he sniffed, "I don't want my dad to have to take all the stress, you know? I want to step up." Christine nodded gently and he continued. "She's taken care of me enough. I should be able to do the….the same for….for her. Right?"

Christine responded by continuing to rub his back and shoulders as Michael choked on.

"I've never seen someone dying before, Christine…."

Christine flashed back to Michael bleeding out in front of her while she was held captive by the very thing that kept her alive, forced to watch the slow death of her best friend, unable to save him.

Still leaning on his shoulder, she traced the many scars the lined his arms and hands which turned bright red in the winter chill. They led her like street signs, making their way to the long, straight scar that Michael hid under curls.

"It's okay, Michael. I have."


End file.
